My Fault
by Mirrankei
Summary: In the aftermath of Endgame, they all grieve in their own ways. It's not anyone's fault, really, but it's hard to accept that as fact. Somebody's to blame; it might as well be themselves.
1. One

He was never any good at being quiet. That was something they all had shared, him and his family, they all liked to talk, to shout and laugh as much as possible. They liked to keep busy. Keep moving.

He hadn't moved since they'd got back to the Watchtower. He hadn't said anything since before that, when they'd boarded the ship. He'd just looked out window at the scenery flying by, not quite seeing it. Now, staring down at the planet from orbit it finally hit him how quiet it was. It hurt.

It was probably that awareness of the sound, the lack of sound, that let him hear when Bruce showed up behind him. Normally he didn't stand a chance of hearing the Bat when he didn't want to be heard.

"We sent the team home," Bruce said. "They need to get some rest."

"Thanks," he said. His voice came out hoarse.

Bruce joined him at the window. He was grateful for the company. He'd expected Dinah, maybe, to come and find him, or even Clark, but he was glad to have someone who wouldn't push him. Try and make him talk.

He just wanted to watch the planet turn. To see the world Wally had saved.

"It was all my fault," he said. It was unintentional. He wasn't certain if he was speaking or just thinking until the words were spilling out of him. "Everyone's telling me it wasn't, but I don't even mean the... the incident. I mean the whole thing was my fault. It was my notes, my experiment, my stupid pride that got him into this whole thing in the first place."

"It was his choice to be a hero," Bruce said. Calm. Factual. "Always. He came of his own free will, he kept going. He wanted to save the world."

"I know! I know that. Of course he did, there was no stopping him. God, he was born to be a hero! But I never gave him the time, I never –" He remembered Wally, _tiny,_ seven years ago. Or was it eight by now? It seemed so long ago, the little boy digging through his supposedly hidden files, grinning and dancing around him. A little boy swathed in bandages, covered in burns and cuts, ashamed of his failure, and then so proud of his success the first time he realized how fast he could go. Desperate to help. Forcing his way in.

"I never wanted a sidekick," Barry whispered, leaning against the window. "And he knew it! It was always there between him and me. We never talked about it, but... he knew. And he tried so hard. But I didn't train him properly. He did amazing on his own, with the team, with Dinah, but who was going to teach him to use his speed? Me, and I didn't. There was no reason he wasn't as fast, none that I could find. But I never even tried to figure it out, never helped him achieve his full potential. I should have been there."

"It isn't your fault, Barry. You did everything you could. You were a great mentor, and Wally became the hero he was because of you. He made his own choices, and he saved the world. You should be proud of him, not blaming yourself for his death."

"I am proud of him. I always have been." Barry sighed and stepped away from the window. He pulled off his hood, ran a hand through his hair. "Did it help you?"

"Did what help?"

Barry smiled wryly. "You're parroting back the same things we said to you. When you lost Jason."

"Hm."

"It's not that I don't believe they're true. I do, but..."

"You still blame yourself."

"Does it ever go away, Bruce?"

Batman adjusted his position, bringing his cape forwards and around his body. It was something Barry could recognize now as a habit, something he only did when he was uncomfortable.

"No," Bruce said. "It never did for me. But I couldn't forgive myself when I was eight years old either. It's not something I do easily." He turned around to look at Barry, sighing as he pulled off his own cowl. "The only thing to do is to try and focus on how proud you are instead. Think of how amazing he was when he was alive. Then concentrate on the living, and try and look to the future. But you never do forget. You never really want to."

"No." Barry closed his eyes. He had a new Kid Flash to train now, he supposed. And two more on the way, tiny and helpless. And if they turned out half as amazing as Wally had, he still had something to be proud of.

His palms pressed into his eyes, sending warm wetness down his cheeks and soaking into his shirt sleeves. "Thank you, Bruce."

_But it's still my fault._


	2. Two

He'd come home late. For a brief moment his heart had swelled, when his parents opened the door and he'd been hugged and fawned over and loved all evening. He told them he was tired, which was true, and he got away from them all by going upstairs and closing the door. He didn't turn on the light.

His eyes hurt. They often did, when he was exhausted, but it was worse than normal. A horrible pressure that made him think his eyes were just going to pop and ooze all over his face, but they didn't. Not even when he tried to make them. Not when he pressed his fingers in, not when he focused all of his energy on letting himself cry. He'd held it back long enough, but...

_You should rest._

"I should," he said out loud, but he was too exhausted to sleep. Too scared of what he'd see when he let his mind wander. "I can't."

There was no reply. Nothing to say, he supposed. He was grateful for the silence at first. He needed this, he needed to let himself feel, but at the same time he wanted to talk. He wanted to feel comfort and support but that wasn't fair, not when he knew they were both feeling the same way. All they would do is review the same scene over and over in their heads, analyze it to the breaking point and come to the same conclusion every time.

There was nothing they could do. There was nothing they could have done then.

"And it was all our _fault_."

His voice broke on the last word, and his eyes finally let loose their floodgates. He sat back against the door, slowly sinking to his floor, hands soaked, body wrecked with horrible spasms as he sobbed. Everything tasted like salt, his whole world wet and sticky, the image of the swirling vortex burned behind his eyelids, the energy strikes, the tornado going the opposite way, fast but not fast enough, unprepared, because he couldn't warn them in time, couldn't think as fast as he could see, just watching as everything happened at once, sixteen never ending seconds until time and the vortex and everything suddenly _ceased_.

"Jaime?"

He jumped slightly at the voice. His sensors should have heard his father coming, but – the door opened against his back and closed again when his spine couldn't bend further forward.

"Jaime?" he heard again. "What's going on? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he tried to say, but it just came out a blubber, a sticky mess of mucus and tears he couldn't stop. "I'm... I'm..."

"Jaime, I'm coming inside."

The door pushed him forwards gently – Jaime couldn't move on his own, his limbs were noodles, everything ached for no reason – warm arms lifted him by the armpits, supporting him even though his father had to walk with a cane, still so much stronger than anybody Jaime knew. He was pulled to his feet, gently, slowly, walked the short distance to his bed and sat down on it.

"Tell me what happened, Jaime," his father said. Calloused fingers ran through Jaime's short hair, pulling him close and holding him like a child.

"I missed one," Jaime coughed out, his voice harsh and too quiet. "There were twenty-one, I only found twenty. We were too late, I didn't know what would happen, I didn't think to check the Reach computer, I didn't know what it would do. I should have known, I should have been able to predict it, I should have done something to stop him. I saw the whole thing, every moment, every time he was struck, he was vaporized."

His voice broke again, and he collapsed into his father's embrace, burying his face in his shirt. "I should have done something, but I just hung there and watched him die."

A hand started rubbing his back, up and down, soothing motions. It didn't even pause at the metal insect buried under his shirt, back up to his shoulder, down his spine, warming and comforting without saying a word.

"There was nothing I could do."

"You did everything you could," his father said. "I know it hurts, but you are a hero, Jaime. You're a good man, and I am so proud of you."

"I'm supposed to save everyone," Jaime said, muffled by his father's shirt. "I couldn't save my own teammate."

_I was too slow. I did not predict the outcome. I could not find a solution in time._

"I couldn't even try, I was too scared."

_I have failed you._

"No, it was me, I failed, I messed up, I –"

"Shh, Jaime," his father said. "Breathe."

Jaime breathed. Air filled his lungs and he almost choked on it. He gasped it down like he was drowning.

"Tell me about him," his father said. "Tell me what happened. I'm here for you, Jaime. I will listen."

Jaime squeezed his father's hand. He kept breathing, long, deep breaths as best he could, his father's hand stroking his head and his back, and he told him. He talked until his breaths were steady, jumping from topic to topic but slowly calming down.

His father listened, and told him he was a good man, that he was proud, that Wally would have been as well, that Bart didn't blame him, that he had saved the world and he would do it again, that the team needed him and that they weren't malfunctioning or damaged.

And Jaime believed him. He closed his eyes, exhausted and curled up on the side of the bed with his father stroking his hair.

But it was still his fault. _Our fault_.


	3. Three

"I'll be fine," he'd told them, waving. He knew he couldn't hide the pain in his eyes, but he could make it seem like he was hiding less than they thought. He was exhausted, that was all. Why wouldn't he be? He just needed to go home and rest and he'd be good as new, they didn't need to worry.

Black Canary had wanted to talk to him, her and Miss Martian both, but their quiet questions were too much and he waved them off with a forced laugh and managed to put them both off until the next day. They looked concerned but everyone looked concerned, and how could they worry about him when everyone else were the ones who needed help?

They had gone back in the Bioship, the whole team-minus-one, and Grandpa Barry had just stared outside the whole time, completely blank, but he took Bart's hand when he offered it. Jaime had stood beside him, and they forced strained smiles at each other – they had won, after all, they had saved the world – and he did his best not to look in the back, the room that Ship had built for the occasion so there would be some privacy. He could still hear Artemis crying though, her face buried in Nightwing's shoulder as he clutched at her shoulders like he was afraid she would disappear too.

They'd insisted on taking him home, which was probably good, because he was too exhausted to run any more, and Jay met him at the door, his eyes red and wet. Joan was inside, and she swept him up in a hug without saying anything.

"Do you need anything to eat?" she asked. She always did, she was like a grandmother, worried that he was too thin, too small, and he never turned her down normally.

"Maybe later," Bart said, smiling at her. "Right now I just want to sleep. Been running all day."

"All right," she said, petting his hair in a fruitless attempt to make it stay down. "You just let me know when you're ready, I'll warm it up for you."

"Thanks," he said, and hugged her again, and Jay, before climbing slowly up to his room, his legs like lead.

When he didn't come down hours later, they talked in hushed voices downstairs. They went upstairs, but the light was off when they opened the door to his room, a small figure huddled under the blankets. They ate the dinner, most of it, but Joan could always make more. They washed the dishes, checked again. Went to bed.

Morning came and he was still asleep. Joan cooked breakfast, big servings of everything she could find, pancakes and sausage and eggs and cereal and a lot of toast. They ate. Upstairs was still silent.

"Bart?" Jay called quietly, opening the door to his bedroom. "You in here, Sport?"

The shape on the bed shook a little. "I'm here," Bart said, after a long hesitation.

"You still sleeping?"

"No," Bart said. He shook again, under the covers.

"There's breakfast downstairs if you want it."

"I'm not hungry. Thanks."

Jay sighed and walked to the bed. "It's been twelve hours, kid, you must be starving. I know us speedsters can't usually go for more than four. Come downstairs."

"I will," Bart murmured. "I just want to sleep first."

"You've been sleeping all night."

"No."

Jay blinked down at the lump in the blankets. "No? You haven't slept?"

"I tried." His voice was broken now.

Jay sat down on the side of the bed and reached for the blanket. Bart didn't stop him from pulling it away, though he flinched at the light coming in from the window. He had changed out of his costume before getting in bed, dressed in light blue and white pajamas and shorts, but his arms were wrapped around something clutched to his chest, bright yellow and red, his fingers clenched tight around a pair of goggles.

"Oh," said Jay.

"He finished it," Bart said miserably. "He showed me all the specs and the changes he was making and took the measurements, but we were supposed to finish it together. He customized it for me."

"He left it with Joan and me a day or two ago," Jay said. "Was supposed to be a surprise, so we left it in your room. Wanted us to time how long it would take you to put it on and run over to his place. Figured you were gonna yell about it the whole way and tackle him no matter what he was doing at the time."

"I would have," Bart said with a choked laugh. "I'd have sprinted to Stanford and tackled him in full costume and hugged him so hard they'd've had to pry me off with a crowbar."

The laugh faded slowly, peppered with soft hiccups and sniffles.

Jay ruffled his hair. "He'd be proud of you, kid."

"Why," Bart said flatly. "I didn't do anything."

"You saved the world, kid, you and him."

Bart didn't answer.

"You came back here from your future, you changed everything. You saved Barry's life, you beat the Reach, you did wonders for that Beetle kid. You did good, Bart. Wally was proud of you, or he'd never have made you the costume in the first place."

"I didn't save him," Bart said. He gazed blankly at the wall, not blinking. "I came back because I wanted to save everyone. I wanted my family back. I barely knew him in my future, he died when I was a little kid. And now that future's gone, the people I knew are never gonna exist the same way. And the family I had here is broken. Because I couldn't slow down."

"Bart…"

"I just kept sprinting, Jay. I heard him and Grandpa talking, but I didn't slow down, I believed Luthor, but we could have kept pace, we could have _helped_ him, and I didn't! I didn't save him. It was my fault." He sat up, rubbing his head, letting the costume fall to the mattress. "I don't deserve this. Not if he can't give it to me himself."

"Too late for that, kid," Jay said. He plucked the goggles from Bart's hand, reaching around to strap them around his head. Bart stared blankly at him as he adjusted the lenses on the boy's forehead, centering them and brushing his hair down over them. "He left it here for you, Bart. He already made that decision. You've earned the costume. You've earned the name 'Kid Flash,' if you want it."

Bart looked down at his lap, running his thumb over the lighting symbol on the uniform's chest.

"Come on," Jay said, slapping Bart on the shoulder. "Come downstairs and have something to eat. You don't need to starve yourself. Think what Wally would say, he took his food _very_ seriously."

"Yeah," said Bart. "I know."

Jay lingered in the doorway. Bart didn't make any move to get up from the bed, slowly rubbing the lens of his goggles with his thumb.

"Five minutes, kid," Jay said. "Then we're coming up here and forcing a sandwich down your throat whether you want it or not."

"Okay," said Bart, looking up with a meek smile. "I'll be down in a flash."

Jay threw his arms up like he had been mortally offended, supressing a smile before turning to leave.

The door shut behind him, and Bart turned back to the uniform. _His_ uniform, he supposed, though it still didn't feel like it.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly to the lightning bolt. "It was my fault. I should have listened. I should have slowed down." He raised the cloth in his hands, pressing his forehead into the symbol. His eyes felt warm, prickling. "But I'll try to live up to your expectations. To your memory."

He curled down onto his own lap, hugging the cloth to him, ignoring the sharp corners of the shoulder armor digging into his chest.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm going to miss you."

With fifty-three milliseconds to go, Bart was out the door and down at the kitchen table. He smiled brightly at Joan as she handed him a plate with fried eggs on it. It was still forced, she could tell, but maybe more honest than the one from the night before. He sat down, fork in one hand, the other planted firmly in his hair, thumb running over the lens of his goggles.


End file.
